


encampment

by llassah



Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llassah/pseuds/llassah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For catwalksalone, sadly belated, but with much love! A slice of life fic, set on the road to Paris. This travelling life and romance are taking their toll for our noble heroes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	encampment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catwalksalone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catwalksalone/gifts).



And so to Paris, the carts churning dust that hovered in clouds above the lines of pilgrims, jacks of the road, knights, squires, nobles, pages and whores, grooms and the occasional poet. The road to Paris was covered in horseshit, paged with glory and riches, leading the way to blood and gold on the field. The tourney was on the move.

“When the bishop of York went a-pillaging, he stole one ruby, three…chalices, two diamonds, a manuscript, a novice monk, three mother superiors, an abbot and…no- no, no forfeit, I’m thinking…a serving wench.”

“When the bishop of York went a-pillaging, he stole two- no, one ruby, three chalices, two diamonds, a manuscript, a novice monk, three abbess—no, ignore that,  three mother superiors, an abbot, a serving wench and a juicy joint of mutton.”

“Mutton, Wat?”

Wat grinned at Roland. “A bishop must eat,” he said devoutly, squinting in the sun.

Geoff roused himself from his stupor. “True, and I have heard tell that pillaging is sore famishing work.”

“Been talking to Adhemar recently?”

Will snarled, staring straight ahead.

The tourney procession stopped outside a small town half a day’s ride from Paris, and they got the tent up, with some blaspheming, then slumped, saddle sore and weary, on the grass outside the tent. Night fell, and they roused themselves enough to set up a fire and some food, then it was back to wearily sitting, albeit with full bellies and warm feet, completing the small but necessary tasks of the day. Geoff listened to the countless noises of the campsite, and pursued his favoured pastime: watching Wat without getting caught.

This thing between them was new yet, but comfortable, leaning against each other in taverns, brushing hands as they walked, shared secrets and history, the glint of his hair in sunlight and the kisses in shadowed corners, and oh, when Philippa was there, the pair they made.

“What do you daydream about?” Will called over, head bent over his armour like a monk at prayer, oilcloth in hand.

“Hellfire and damnation,” he answered lightly, stirring at the embers with a stick. It was, in a way, the truth. He had never loved wisely, for where was the fun in that?

Kate laughed softly. Her hair picked up ruby tints in the firelight, as she sketched out curved lines on a slate, graceful swoops of metal that would become her own light armour, increasingly prized among jousters. She even had wax casts of limbs sent to her, that she might fit armour to knights even when she travelled. Had she loved wisely? She had a profession, hers by right, some wealth, growing respect, enough money put by to keep herself fed and clothed. A cold bed and a husband she still reached out for in her sleep. A determination to remain a widow, lest her newly won husband force her to give up all she had gained, and yet it was a precarious existence, should she lose the strength in her arms.

Will? Will did nothing wisely. It was not in his nature. Will had his Jocelyn, and they were foolish together, dancing in their plumed finery, winning by day and laying together at night without the protection of marriage or lands, living by the lance. Will had his dreams and his idealism, and could live a lie in a way that made it truth.

Roland loved them all, in his way. If Roland loved at all, he did so patiently, calm and deep, kind, a blossoming love, steady as the seasons, quiet as their changing.

And Wat, well. He loved ardently, with little thought of sin, hell or death. All was joy, anger, food and love, as true as an arrow, each change flitting across his face as Geoff watched with his poet’s eyes and coward’s heart. Perhaps Wat loved the wisest of all, because he loved without doubt. Aye, and loved well.

He stood up, brushing the creases from his clothes, grinned at Wat, bowed to Kate and sauntered out. He counted his paces as he dodged drunken revellers, pimpled squires, guttersnipes and food sellers. Forty paces in and Wat fell into step, bumping his shoulder with a grin. “They think you’re off chasing your fortune with knucklebones,” he said, giddy as a novice nun. “But you’re trying your luck with me.”

“Need I luck?”

“Well, a fortune would be nice, for all the fat purses Gaunt gives you, for how are you meant to keep me and sweet Lady Philippa besides?”

And what sweet flame haired menaces to his mind and his purse to keep.

They ducked into the shadow of a tent, kissed hastily, a swift promise of lips, pulling apart as the voices of revellers came closer, coming together as they faded. All this swift stolen time, these unsatisfying embraces, all of this so nearly having and yet being as Tantalus above water, utterly frustrated.

“This will kill me,” Wat gasped after the third parting. “I like you well, very well—”

“Better than food?” he interrupted with a grin, loving the way Wat scrubbed a hand through his hair as he stepped away, arms outstretched.

“Aye, and drink, and more besides; the air I breathe, the water I drink, the blood in my veins and the stars in the heavens, but this desire, and with nothing to slake it on, this creeping like rats. It drives me mad. Damn these crowds,” he growled, eyes bright, lips reddened.

“We’ll find somewhere. Somewhere quiet. This time, it’ll be somewhere out of the way. If I don’t kiss you properly, I may die.”

They walked side by side, weaving through the crowds. A small group of village girls whispered and pointed, their eyes bright and skin browned by work out on the fields. Their hair was dressed with ribbons, scraps of bright colour they had begged or saved for, trinkets from swains in the village.

“The horses are stabled in a barn near here—the farmer must be making a fortune,” he began. Wat laughed aloud, snagging a sweetmeat from a stall and flipping a coin at the seller.

“Soft hay! Soft hay, Geoff, a quiet barn, for all the grooms are surely in their cups by now.”

They passed a fire juggler and a pilgrim telling tales of the one legged men and the women with three eyes in their bellies as squires and pages listened, rapt. Soon, there would be a tense excitement in the air, pages and squires brawling for the honour of their knight masters. Now, there was only relief at the end of a hard day’s travelling, at being on solid ground once more.

The summer night was warm, a breeze sending the smoke from the fires drifting across the site. Some of the village women had rolled barrels of ale and wine onto the field and were doing a lively trade, forming inns without roofs or walls. When the band struck up the tabors and the shawms there would be dancing under the stars, pretty girls from the surrounding villages in their Sunday best, sweet faced young swains and wide-eyed children, drawn to the grubby glamour of the tourney, of knights and horses, the shattering of lances and the roar of the crowd. The progress through the country had a pattern to it, for all that men could fall or rise at the point of a lance. It was the same each year. He had grown accustomed to this life: he was getting old.

The barn was lit with torches, and the only sound was the whickering and shuffling of horses. A flagon stood empty on one of the stools in the entrance, alone with a half-finished game of knucklebones. The laughter from the camp had drawn the stable hands there, where there was more excitement to be had than watching horses sleep, where sleepy-eyed girls smiled and spiced wine warmed their tongues. Wat laughed softly and tugged him through the doorway and they kissed as they manoeuvred out of sight of the door, drawing snatched breaths between each kiss. Three days of desire. It was too much, too long to want.

“God, I could die in this moment,” he gasped. “Die in sin with you.”

“Thought you didn’t believe in sin,” Wat said as he tugged aside clothing, fingers deft on laces, wicked and warm.

“Oh, do that again and I’ll believe in more than sin. Sweet Jesu, it has been too long—”

Footsteps. They stilled like rabbits in rushlights.

“Ah. Well met, herald. Squire.”

He really wasn’t the penitent sort, but he was starting to believe in divine retribution. “My Lord Adhemar,” he managed, keeping his nerve, slumped as he was with garments askew, Wat shielding him from view. The torchlight sent shadows flickering over Adhemar’s campaign-tanned skin, a dull sheen on his black hair. “I, ah…that is we…”

“How odd. I thought you were known for your voice, and yet your eloquence has fled. It is of no matter. Please leave, Gabriel needs apples.”

He couldn’t seem to gather all his limbs into movement. Wat roused himself from his stupor and gripped Geoff’s hand tightly.

“Whatever it is that you are going to do, leave Will out of it, I beg of you. Do what you wish to us, but leave him alone,” Wat began, still standing a little in front of him.

Adhemar blinked slowly. “Do to you? Ah. I understand. Your …yes, whatever this was, it is of no import to me. I merely wish to be with my horse. You are in front of his stall. Please move.”

“Move? Is that all? But you- you _hate_ Will.”

Adhemar sighed. “Yes, I hate him. He offends the natural order of things. However, hating him too publically tends to lose me my armies and my horses. His Highness is rather fond of the boy, for some reason. I know which way the wind blows, and as for you, well. You have three masters, all of them powerful.”

“I believe I understand you,” Geoff began cautiously, fastening his garments with as much dexterity as he could muster.

“I don’t,” Wat said, with the expression of a man who wasn’t sure if a tree was about to fall on him or not.

“Can you joust?” Adhemar asked, his expression one of patience with a hint of lunacy. Wat just gazed back, face stuck in confusion. “Are you, at any point, going to attempt to beat me in the tilting field or steal one of my horses, companies or women? Are you, in short, going to act in a manner that is anything other than base-born and common, get on a horse and prance about like a bear at a banquet?”

“My lord, nothing could be further from our plans,” Geoff found himself saying, putting a hand on Wat’s shoulder in preparation for when confusion inevitably turned to anger.

“Then I see no further need for you to explain yourself. The only way in which your activities could in any way cause me to break out in the merest hint of sweat would be if you were in some way attempting to best me. Please leave, I wish to be with my horse.”

They both stood fixed to the spot until Adhemar made little shooing motions with his hands, then it was back out into the warmth of the night. Behind them, Adhemar crooned to his horse

“Odd fellow, that,” Geoff murmured. “Never the same after that tumble he took.”

“Damn him and his tumble to hell, Geoff, I swear it will drop off if this keeps happening. They will hold masses for it, there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth across the land—”

Geoff let him talk as they wove in and out of the crowds, back to their tent which waited for them complete with Roland snoring, Will sighing for his love and the thousand sounds of a busy campsite. He stopped suddenly, took Wat’s arm and grinned, slow elation gripping him.

“In Paris—in Paris, I have a few rooms. I had quite forgotten, I suppose I gather boltholes to me—yes, yes, Wat I’ll make my point— I have a few rooms, which I rent from a very…”

“Quiet landlady?”

“Aye, one of the best women I know. Handy with a dagger, too.”

“Geoff, I couldn’t give a tinker’s balls for her virtue or her knives; does the door lock, and is there a bed?”

“Yes, and yes, the softest bed in Christendom.”

Wat’s grin was like the sun coming out. Every time, however small the thing, it caught at Geoff’s heart. “To Paris, then.”

“To the tourney, and to glory and riches.”

“Stuff glory and riches, to locked doors and beds.”

They walked back to the camp, as close together as they dared, hiding their smiles in the moonlight.

To glory and riches, a city that stank and bustled, the gleam of armour and the roar of the crowds, to a silver tongue and words on the breath of angels, swords and broken lances, horse sweat and the clinking of coins.

To a room, at the top of some stairs, with a sturdy door and thick walls, rented from a woman with a dagger in each boot. To a cool bed, with spiced wine and apricots, with more candles lit than was frugal. To Wat, his Wat, his very own, lying with the warmth of candlelight on his freckled back, replete, sleeping. To Paris, at last.


End file.
